


You Said You'd Be There

by Cena316AA



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Chaptered, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I don't know where this story is going so I'll probably be adding more tags later on, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cena316AA/pseuds/Cena316AA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is after the events of Captain America: Civil War and focuses on the relationship between Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4 Years After

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry! I have this fanfic on pause for right now. I will return to it...I just don't know when. I'm working on other stuff at the moment, though, so feel free to read up on that.

How long has it been?  
How long since the letter?

 _I promise you_  
It had said  
_If you need me_  
He did need him.  
_I’ll be there_

And now, he was here.

 

It’s been four years since they'd seen each other. Four years of no contact nor any information about his former Captain.

But that was not the case for Steve. Steve had been keeping up with the doings of Tony Stark and the new Avengers. He had to, for Tony’s sake. He hadn’t felt right leaving him the way he did, 

_I know I hurt you, Tony_

which is why he had sent him that letter, letting him know that he’d be there. That he cared.

_Hopefully one day you can understand_

Did this meeting mean that Tony finally understood why Steve had done what he did?

Steve stopped in his steps. Tony, too, had stopped walking toward him. Only a couple of feet separated them.

They examined each other for a few moments. Steve in his unzipped dark brown, leather jacket which partly revealed a white collared-shirt studied Tony’s slightly crumpled dark suit. His red tie was loose and crooked which matched the unusual scruffiness of Tony’s beard.

“Cap.”  
“Stark.”

Their usual greeting. 

“It’s kind of hot outside. We should go in before you melt . . . again,” Tony added that last word with a smirk.

Steve smiled at the minor nudge. Although he’d never admit it, he’d miss Tony’s snide remarks.

Tony led the way across the Avengers compound; Steve followed, noticing all the new additions to the headquarters he was sure Tony had had a say in. 

“Right this way, Cap.” Tony stood in front of an open doorway, motioning with his arm for Steve to step in.

It looked like an office. An extremely extravagant office. _Probably Tony’s_ , Steve thought with a smirk. _No, not probably . . . it IS Tony’s._

A huge painting of Iron Man stood in the center of the opposite wall. Steve sighed.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Tony said when he saw what had captured Steve’s attention.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged. “Sure is.”

  


After setting his jacket on the coat rack, Steve made his way to the big comfortable-looking chair which sat in front of a large, mahogany desk. He sat down. Tony sat opposite him, behind the desk. “So, where are the others?” Steve had noticed the long hallway had been empty, and that seemed unusual in a huge building such as this.

“Well, they’re probably off taking a break. We had a huge...uhh…’issue’ occur, and I gave them some time off.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

This was followed by silence, so Steve asked

“Any new Avengers?” Steve knew what the answer was, but he wanted to kick off the conversation.

“Yeah. We got some new guys, but,” Tony paused. “But, we’ll leave that conversation for another time. I called you for a reason.”

_I’ll be there_

“I haven’t been...okay.”

“I know.”

Tony looked up, surprised.

Steve leaned across the desk. “I’ve seen your interviews. They weren’t...they weren’t you. I noticed, Stark.”

“You’ve been watching my interviews? You stalking me, Cap?”

“I’ve been looking out for you. Just because I left doesn’t mean I abandoned you. I never could.”

Tony leaned back in his leather chair. He looked down at the blank papers scattered on the desk’s surface. “Right.”

“I mean it. I was always looking out for you, Tony.”

“I believe you. I--” Tony hesitated. “I understand why you did it.”

_Hopefully one day you can understand_

“Tony...”

“I don’t forgive what you did to me, but I understand why.”

“No, I get it. What I did to you, keeping that secret, it’s unforgivable.”

“You could at least let me finish, Captain.”

Steve had started to stand up, but with this, he sat back down on his seat.

“I don’t forgive what you _did_ , but I forgive _you_. Call me an idiot all you want, but I can’t let you go. Not again.”

“You never did, Tony. Even after all we went through, we were still together. I think maybe that’s why I wrote you that letter. I wanted you to know I still cared.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Even when we were in the middle of all that shit, I still hoped you’d come back to me. That you’d choose me.”

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

“No. Don’t be. I’ve been thinking about it all for four years now and, although I still disagree with you, I feel like I understand you, now.” Tony chuckled. “I guess we had to separate to come closer together.”

“I guess so,” Steve said with a smile.

“I missed you, you know,” Tony said abruptly.

“Really?” Steve leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah. Stupid kids are always getting into trouble and driving me insane. A few days ago they stole one of my jets and drove it into the ocean. I had just gotten a new coat on it, too.”

Steve laughed. “I would love to help you out, Tony, but I can’t stay long.”

“I know.”

_If you need me, I’ll be there_

“What was it you needed from me?” Steve asked.

“Oh, you know. I just wanted to let you know that. I forgive you. I miss you. We’re buddies again. That stuff.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t leave Tony. He raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “That’s it?”

“Yep.” Tony stood up. “Well, there’s one more thing.”

Steve stood from his chair and approached Tony. “Yes?”

Tony placed his hands in the pockets of his charcoal-colored pants. “Well, I...” He looked down at his black leather shoes. “I...well....I miss you for more reasons than just because I need a babysitter. I-”

Steve approached him, making his way to the back of the desk. He stood next to Tony, and tucked his right hand under Tony’s chin. “I know,” he said.

And placed his lips on his as he used his left hand to pull the troubled man closer to him. His right hand left its place from the chin to wipe away the tear flowing from Tony’s cheek.

Tony grasped Steve’s collar with both fists and brought his body closer to his. This was the embrace he had hoped for. It was what he needed but--

He pulled away.

“Tony?” Steve reached for him.

“No. Stop.” Tony steered away from him. He pointed at the door. “Sorry. This was a mistake. You should--you should go.”

Steve was confused. This was what Tony wanted, right? Was he wrong? “Tony, I--”

“Out,” he paused then added, “please!” 

Steve, confused, grabbed his jacket, placed it over his left hand, and headed out the doorway. 

He took one last look over his shoulder (Tony had his back toward him. He had his hands on his head. _Tony_ …) before he walked away.


	2. Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve dwells on the event that transpired six days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, every two weeks. See you in another two weeks!

The dull rays of the late afternoon New York sun shone through one of the two kitchen windows. The small apartment (consisting of two rooms, a living room, and a bathroom) was nearly empty and silent with the exception of a rhythmic sound that would interrupt the silence every few seconds or so. It was the clinking of a metal spoon against a porcelain bowl.

Steve was eating some soggy, colorful mush that used to be some sort of sugar-filled cereal Sam had brought back on his latest mission: grocery shopping. For a man who preached about nutrition, Steve noticed Sam had what people refer to as a “sweet tooth.” In Sam’s case, however, it was more of “sweet teeth.” The man consumed sugar like a smoker does nicotine during an anxiety-filled day.

The clanking of the spoon continued as Steve stared at the colorful flake-like substance that no longer looked appetizing even to a sugar addict like Sam. He’d been “eating” this part-of-a-complete-breakfast for nearly an hour now.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Sam Wilson greeted Steve with a soft thud on his shoulder. 

“Morning,” Steve mumbled into his bowl of unidentifiable mush. He placed the spoon into the bowl watching it as it became half-buried in the tainted milk.

Sam looked down at the former captain of the great group of superheroes. Looking at him now, Sam thought, it’d be hard to convince somebody that he was the original leader of the Avengers. He took the empty chair next to him and sat down. He clapped his hands on the table. “It’s been six days, Rogers! When are you going to stop moping around?”

Steve looked up at him blankly. No response. 

It was the same conversation they’ve been having since Steve returned from the Avengers headquarters. Sam would try to get him to open up or at least say more than three words to him but to no avail; Steve would brush him off every time. Sam understood that he’d need time to recover from whatever happened between him and Stark, but this was too much for the former military officer. How could he help somebody when he didn’t even know what the problem was? He tried being nice and considerate of Steve’s feelings, but he could only be brushed off so many times before he lost his patience. 

“What even happened over there, man?” Sam said in a voice louder than he intended to.

The impatience in Sam’s question was not lost on Steve who grabbed his still full bowl of cereal and placed it in the sink. “Nothing.” 

“Something obviously happened or else you wouldn’t be eating breakfast at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Then, as an afterthought, he added “Yet.” Steve left the kitchen. He had had this conversation many times since he returned from his former home--the only place that had felt like home since he awoke from his crystal slumber--and worried he’d end up saying (or doing) something he’d regret. As if he didn’t have enough regrets already.

“When will you?!” Sam shouted after him as the Captain left the kitchen. This time he did mean to raise his voice. He was becoming--no, he was--frustrated. 

To no surprise, no response came from down the hall. Sam sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Well, at least I got more than three words out of him.” He had been a bit brash, sure, but Steve’s problem would not be solved by moping around and feeling guilty about whatever happened. Sam knew this. And Steve had to know this, too. “Dammit, Steve,” he said under his breath. “What the Hell happened between you and Stark?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - 

Letting his thoughts consume him again, Steve laid face-down on his bed, pillow pressed against his face. As much as he tried to keep them away, questions and thoughts stormed into his mind. Sure, he could go back into the kitchen and talk to Sam (if he was still there), but what would that accomplish? Other than him finding out about his true feelings for Tony Stark, Steve couldn't see any positive outcome from confiding in Sam. The thoughts pounded against Steve's head, which elicited a groan from him.

“Why did I kiss him?” his voice came muffled from the pillow.

Because it was what he wanted.

“But did he? Did I read too much into the situation?” Steve grumbled and positioned himself on the edge of the bed. Once he reached a comfortable sitting position, he rubbed his face with both of his hands, massaging his throbbing temples in the process. “No. I wasn’t wrong. Tony had said he understood me! He forgave me. Then why--” He let out a low growl. All this thinking was bothering him, and the concurrent emotions that accompanied these thoughts were unlike anything Steve had felt before. They created a troubling concoction of guilt, sadness, fear, and anger that he could no longer handle. He had to get out of this place; it felt too crowded. He grabbed his running shoes and made his way out the door.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - 

“He forgave me.” Steve’s conversation with himself continued after his short run. “He said he missed me. Three times!” He emphasized this last statement by raising three fingers on his right hand. 

He sat on a nearby bench and buried his head into his hands. HIs fingers dug into his dampened blonde hair. They would become sticky with sweat, but this was not currently on Steve’s mind. No. Now that he was no longer running, his thoughts had once again caught up to him, and his focus returned to Tony Stark. 

Even after jogging for four miles (6.5 kilometers), the super soldier did not feel an ounce of exhaustion. He could even continue for a few more miles (or kilometers), but the thoughts would always be waiting for him no matter how much or how far he managed to sprint. In this case, running didn’t matter. His only choice was to do something about these thoughts invading his peace. (If Sam were there with him he’d have a proud smirk on his face that said “told you.”)

His feelings of anger and fear outweighed all others. Tony Stark had told him that he forgave him (not what he did but _him_ ) which seemed reasonable enough to Steve. Tony Stark had said he missed him not once, not twice, but three times. And Steve missed him, too, although he did not say it surely he must have expressed it somehow. Right? He kissed him for God’s sake! 

On the other hand, something was definitely wrong. If Stark had wanted to kiss him, why did he pull back? Not only that, but he looked different. Even in a t-shirt and jeans, Stark could maintain a sophistication about him that could be seen by even those that were not familiar with the Stark name. His presence alone held an aura that Steve had thought was due to his billionaire status, but, after his encounter with T’Challa, he realized that that was not the case. This aura was Stark’s alone, and, Steve thought, even if Tony was the poorest man on Earth, he’d still have this aura about him. 

Except he hadn’t felt it during their last encounter. In fact, there were many things “off” about the Tony Stark he’d last seen. The suit was nothing more than a costume, and his snide remarks seemed falsified. Even that Stark aura had felt … weak. He’d hoped the interviews he’d seen were portraying a different picture, but now it seems that the interviews were only a small part of an even bigger, magnificent painting, one worthy of being hung up in that art museum in New York he once visited with Tony himself. Tony had bragged about an Iron Man "masterpiece" that was about to receive its own exhibition. 

"Maybe one day some poor sap will do one of you," Tony had said.

"You think?" Steve had flashed him a smile.

"Of course. I mean, it won't be as amazing as mine, but it'll be great." 

That memory struck at Steve as if he were being pierced with one of Clint's arrows. It felt as if those events had transpired in another life, another universe. It was so long ago. Back then, Stark had been ... well, Stark. 

“Stark, what is going on with you?” 

A young man and woman, a couple, walking on the path next to the bench looked over to the man grumbling to himself. Steve’s foot had started to tap furiously with impatience, and the woman strongly considered asking him if he was okay but hesitated and continued on the stony path hand-in-hand with her future husband.

"It was the Metropolitan Museum of Art," Steve recalled. "That was it." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm himself down.

It didn't work.

Steve huffed and stood from the bench so suddenly that a couple of heads turned and three running children stopped for a second before returning to their rule-free game. With his mind made up, he hurriedly walked down the path quickly passing the future bride and groom. Sam may have annoyed him, but the Falcon was right about one thing: he had to stop moping around. Thoughts have been invading his head for six days now, attacking him with every ounce of their artillery. Turmoil and chaos were the only states his brain knew. Even in his sleep, when he got any, nightmares would plague him. He couldn't keep living like this anymore. He was going to make this agitation feeding off of him go away one way or another.

He knew what he had to do.


	3. Presenting Tony Stark's Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony deals with the events of six days ago the only way he knows how: drinking and lying. However, this combination may have a lethal end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is up a bit later. It's much longer than the other chapters, though. :)

Tony paced around the room, hands holding an empty glass. He relived his last meeting with Steve Rogers for the seventh time that day. It seems that that was the only activity he was capable of engaging in recently. That and babysitting the other Avengers. The stress of it all seemed to be weighing in on him. His beard was scruffier than ever, and his clothes were disheveled. He wasn’t even sure if the jeans he’d grabbed had been in the clean laundry or dirty laundry pile. He didn’t even care.

He touched the rim of the glass to his lips and received nothing in return. “Dammit,” he cursed under his breath as he shuffled his way to the small bar for the fifth time in one hour. He searched for the bottle that he swore he had left on the counter and found it stored away. Why had he put it away? He shook the question away.

“This is the last one, I swear,” he said as he filled the glass halfway with a dark liquid. As to keep his self-promise, he stored the bottle away. The fumes invaded his nostrils as he placed the glass to his lips and let the liquid burn a path down his throat.

He reached down the counter, his hands searching for the bottle again. When they touched nothing but air, Tony turned to the empty counter. “Oh, yeah,” he scoffed. “That’s why it was stored away the last time.” He sighed, hesitated, and tossed the glass in the sink behind the counter. It hit the metallic base of the sink with a small _clink_. 

He wiped the sweat beginning to form on his palms on his Black Sabbath t-shirt, wrinkling it up even more in the process. He was beginning to feel hot, but he attributed this rise in body temperature to the liquor.

“Nothing a good shower won’t fix.” He made his way to his private bedroom.

His “bedroom” was more of an apartment. In addition to the bedroom, he had his own bathroom, living room, and kitchen. He had even thought about installing a bar in the kitchen, similar to the one in the Avengers’ cafeteria setting, but had decided against it. Or, rather Vision had suggested that it would not be wise to install such a poisonous thing in an area easily accessible to Mr. Stark. Tony had resisted arguing with his own creation and settled on the idea that the “public bar” would give him a reason to get out of his private bedroom. Having to go out for a drink provided Tony with numerous opportunities to converse with his “children,” and, even if it was for a short while, the loneliness that Steve left behind would release its hold on him as he interacted with the members of the Avengers, both new and old. Needless to say, he hadn’t regretted taking Vision's advice, but the prideful man would never admit this to his A.I.

He searched for a clean towel amidst the cluttered mess of clothes on the floor. “I really need to clean all this up,” Tony said as he reached for a towel under one of his dress shirts. He buried his nose in the light-blue towel and inhaled. A lavender scent filled his nostrils. “Yeah, it’s clean,” he said as he took another whiff.

He headed to his walkin closet. He opened the double doors to reveal

“Nothing,” he sighed. “Now, I _really_ need to clean up.”

He returned to the piles of clothes on the floor and picked out another shirt, which he tossed onto the bed. He examined his jeans and after debating whether they were still clean or not he took them off and placed them on the bed next to the black shirt.

He headed over to his underwear drawer and held his breath as he opened it. He released the air in his lungs as he saw it was half full. “Well, at least that removes one problem off my checklist.” He looked around the room and tsked. “Still have to do the laundry, though. Oh, well.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s a problem for another time. Shower time.” He grabbed his towel and headed to his private bathroom.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

“Hey everyone.” A young man just out of his teenage years walked through what was known as the Avengers Lobby. It was really just a spacious room on the second floor next to the cafeteria filled with recreational items such as video games, board games, electronics, etcetera. Plus, it had a nice view of the bar which Tony always kept well stocked. Of course, Peter Parker was still not allowed there, so it was of no concern to him. Maybe once he turned twenty-one, but as of now he was only interested in the mind of the great Tony Stark.

He took off his backpack, which he had slinged upon one arm, and allowed himself to relax on one of the two black leather couches and let out a quiet sigh as his body sank into the cushion. He had sat on one end of the three-seater and on the other end was one of the newer recruits, Hope van Dyne, reading a book.

“Watcha’ reading there?” Peter asked.

Hope showed him the cover in response.

“Nineteen Eighty-Four,” Peter read aloud, “by George Orwell. Hey, I read that book back in high school!”

“Good for you.” Hope returned to her book.

“Scary how true it’s become, isn’t it?”

Hope inserted her bookmark in her unfinished page and closed her book in defeat. “You sure do enjoy talking, don’t you Parker?”

“I--I was just making conversation. I--I mean, I came looking for Mr. Stark, but he doesn’t seem to be here,” Peter said as he looked around the room once more.

“You need something from him?”

“Well, umm, yeah.” Peter rummaged through his backpack. After a few seconds of searching, he finally brought out a notebook and a small box. “I have this thing I wanted to show him. It’s a new weapon for my suit. But,” he opened the little, white box, “I can’t seem to get it to work the way I want it to.”

Hope took out the small, cylindrical object and held it up before her eyes. “What does it do?”

“Well, it’s supposed to send a shock through whomever I touch, but it keeps shocking me instead.”

“Maybe I can help you with this,” Hope said as she continued observing the object.

“Really? Oh, man, thanks! I’d appreciate it.”

“It seems that you’re missing a--” Hope was interrupted by Peter’s stifled yell. “You alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just” Peter held his head, and he swore he could feel it pulsing through his fingers. His spidey-sense was out of control. But, he was in no danger. No, this was a different kind of danger.

“Peter, wha--” Hope was surprised by his sudden movements as he jolted out of the couch and ran upstairs taking the steps two or three at a time, hands still on his head, throbbing growing in intensity. He had heard a low THUD immediately after his spidey-sense had engaged bringing about a world of pain. _Weird._ His spidey-sense, which never failed to warn him of approaching danger, had never triggered such an excruciating headache. Even more "weird," it wasn’t warning him of approaching danger. It was warning him of something else.

He flailed his arms about as he hurriedly regained his balance after fumbling on the last step. As soon as both feet were firmly on the third floor, he lunged down the hall to Mr. Stark’s private room. He didn’t bother knocking but was more than relieved to find the door unlocked. He dashed through the SPA (Stark’s Private Apartment as it came to be called by the Avengers. Tony wasn’t aware of this nickname, and the crew would prefer it remain this way.) that was nine times the size of his college dorm and probably bigger than anything he’ll ever be able to afford in his life. His right foot connected with a cord, and Peter heard a crash behind him but never bothered to look back at the source. He frantically made his way to Tony’s bedroom and burst through the door (unlocked! today was his lucky day) screaming the billionaire’s name in the hopes of a reply.

Silence.

No. Not completely. There was a muffled sound nearby. It was a sound that Peter had heard many times in his lifetime.

“Water.” His whisper filled the room. It was the sound of running water. A sound that one usually hears when waiting outside the door for the occupant to finish with their daily shower. “Tony!” He knocked on the bathroom door out of habit more than courtesy. “Tony!” The hoarseness in his voice prevented him from yelling louder, so he made up for it by banging on the door.

No reply.

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. He backed away a few steps and prepared to run. He positioned his body, shoulder ready to clash with the door. It seemed that he’d have to break down the door. He bent his knee and charged.

“Park--oof!”

Peter slowed down enough to prevent any serious injuries to the nearly naked man before him, but, failing in stopping his charge, he brought them both down onto the tiled, bathroom floor.

“Uh, Parker?”

“Yeah,” came the muffled reply.

“Could you get off me. This is extremely uncomfortable for me.”

Peter’s face was buried in Tony’s wet, naked, chiseled chest, and he quickly raised his body off of the towel-wearing man. “I’m so sorry!” he said as he helped Tony up.

“Don’t worry about it. If it weren’t for my aching back, I wouldn’t mind,” he said as he placed his hands on his sides and stretched his body. “But the tile floor is a truly uncomfortable place to lay on. And,” he gave a slight pause, “you’re not my type.”

Normally, Peter would have snickered at these snide remarks, but his focus was not on Tony’s words. 

“Blood,” he murmured. “Your head.”

“Complete sentences please,” Tony said as he rolled his eyes at the young man.

“There’s blood on your head.”

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Tony Stark was aware that blood was dripping down his temples. He had been taking a nice relaxing shower not aware that he would be having a brush with Death. The golden shampoo bottle, which bore the name of a luxurious company, one that none of the other Avengers--with the exception of T’Challa--had even heard of, had squirted a more than necessary amount of shampoo onto Tony’s hand. The blame for this clean mess fell onto the shampoo bottle even though the user’s brain had been too preoccupied with a certain blond, star-spangled super-soldier to dispatch the urgent message that the pile of shampoo was becoming dangerously excessive.

“Fuck!” The shampoo had started running down his hands, trickling down his wrist, and dripping from his elbow. Some had landed on his foot. “Dammit,” he cursed again. “Well, no use in letting it all go to waste.” He rubbed his hands together as if he had come up with a devious plan to take over the world and brought them up to his black hair made even darker by the cool water pouring from the silver shower head just a few inches above him. He rubbed his head as if massaging it would bring him the inner peace he so desperately longed for. It took him more than usual to transfer the shampoo from his hands to his hair, and his black hair turned white as snow making him look years older. If he had had a mirror in front of him, and if his eyes had been opened, he’d comment on how he now physically looked like how he mentally felt. He let the water flow down his scalp. The cool temperature running down his naked body brought about a sense of serenity. This peace wouldn’t last long, though, and he knew it.

Acting out of habit, Tony opened his eyes a lot sooner than advisory. The sting immediately coursed from his eye to his brain. “Ah!” he hissed. He tried to rub his eye, but it only seemed to make the situation worse. “Dammit!” He tightly shut his eyes and faced the pouring water. He moved closer to the shower head but, in his blindness, bumped into the side of the tub, and the luxurious shampoo bottle, already lathered in a slippery mixture of soap and shampoo, crashed down creating a loud booming noise. A noise very much like a gunshot.

Which is what Tony’s mind registered it as.

His breathing came in short, rapid gasps, and his heart rate increased as if he had just run four miles (6.5 kilometers), which is what a certain Captain was doing at this very moment. He felt his senses sharpen, and, suddenly, he was no longer blind. He could see everything, including things that weren’t there. He saw bullets flying at him, some grazing him, and felt a loss of breath as one penetrated his body. He saw his journey through the wormhole Loki had created, and his body dropped a few degrees as it shivered in the newfound coldness. He saw all the near crashes he’d had in his Iron Man suit while flying at an altitude most humans never even think about reaching, and perspiration mixed in with the cool water still flowing from the shower head.

And, he saw Steve.

Steve holding his shield over Tony’s head preparing to end this war whichever way he could, even if it meant beheading his longtime companion. Steve digging his knee into Tony’s busted up Iron Man suit. Steve . . . choosing Bucky.

Tony drew back trying to get away from the water falling down his face. The shower had turned into an ocean, and he was drowning in it. He took another frantic step back, and his eyes flew open as his arms reached out to break his fall. A loud THUD resonated through the bathroom--and in Peter’s ears--as his wet buttocks made hard contact with the tub, and the side of his head smacked onto the edge of it.

He had awoken to the sound of his name being shouted repeatedly. Realizing that he had momentarily blacked out, he opened his eyes. With a groan, he managed a sitting position. His head was buzzing, and a pattering sound invaded his ears. The water was still running.

It took his brain a second to acknowledge the pain. He brought his hand to his throbbing head and realized that the trickling down his cheek was not water. “Shit.” He made his way to the shower head, on his ass, and positioned himself right under the trickling water. Red decorated the tub’s white base. Tony stared at the blood as it swirled down the drain.

_BANG BANG BANG!!!_

At first he thought his head was literally pounding, but then he realized somebody was at the door. “Shit!” He couldn’t let anybody know about his condition. Only Pepper had known about his PTSD, but even she thought he’d been managing it (possibly freed from it) and had seen no occurrence of it.

The truth was, it had gotten worse in these past four years.

The incidents usually occurred when he was alone or where nobody could see him. He’d fix himself up and head out acting as if nothing had transpired. And, they always believed him. Why wouldn’t they? He was Tony Stark. Tony Stark, the man who had risked his life many times for humanity. He was brave and courageous. No way he suffered from something mental like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He was stronger than that. And a strong man could not have a mental disorder. That's just the way the world works.

_right?_

In order to keep up this appearance, he learned to avoid certain triggers. On his birthday three years ago, a champagne bottle had caused a small panic attack, but he assured his guests he had drank too much. After all, sweatiness, a red-flushed face, and abnormal breathing are also indicators of intoxication. After that, he’d never attended another party, with the exception of the small social gatherings his team sometimes held. Said he was trying to avoid events that’d trigger his alcoholism. And, of course, they had bought it. (They might not have had if they'd seen how much time he spent by the bar throughout the day.)

“If Steve were there, he’d have known,” Tony muttered. He threw the thought away and stood up. His towel was on the rack, and he reached for it. The pounding in his head had subsided, but that wasn’t the only pounding that had diminished. No sound came from the other side.

Tony wrapped his lower half with his clean, blue towel and leaped to the door. He reached for the doorknob and opened to the door to see Peter Parker rushing at him.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Peter was still observing the bloodied man. His movements had been a little clumsy, but he had managed to put on a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt without needing Peter’s help. Besides the blood flowing from his head (it had decreased from a stream to a trickle), Tony seemed fine. Still, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something odd about the billionaire.

"You've been drinking again, haven't you?" Peter stated somberly. His eyes drooped to the grayish carpet.

Tony chuckled. So, out of all the Avengers (all older than Peter), this kid was the one to notice. "So what? Now you're my doctor? My mom?"

"You do this all the time. Why can't you just admit you have a problem? You're going to get yourself killed!" Peter abruptly raised his head up and gave Tony a hard, cold stare that surprised the older man. He had never seen this look in a kid so young. It made him look older . . . more mature . . . and, yet . . .

"So now you're belittling me? You think you're better than me? You're not even old enough to drink, yet! When you are then--"

"Stop it! You and I both know that's not the case here. We both know what the reason behind this, this . . ." Peter struggled for the right word, "addiction is. Ever since Mr. Rogers left--"

"Don't you dare mention his name! I don't want to hear about that traitor." Tony's fist were clenched.

Peter, at the sharpness in Tony's voice, lowered his own. "I thought you invited him back here to bury the hatchet. What happened?"

"What happened? What happened?! I'll tell you what happened. I realized that--"

_that what?_

Tony turned away from Peter. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You always do this. You've been shutting us out like this ever since Ro--he left."

"Welcome to the grown-up world, kid, where the person you trusted the most ends up betraying everything you ever believed in leaving you a screwed up mess."

_trust?_ Had Peter heard correctly. So, he was right. It was because of Steve. Everything had been pure speculation up until now, but Tony had confirmed it.

"You need to talk to him."

"I have nothing to say to him."

"Apparently you do."

Tony turned to face the young man again, frustration was beginning to overtake him. "I don't need to do anything, especially listen to a kid's advice."

"Maybe a kid's advice is what you need!" Peter was surprised by the sound of his own booming voice. He had never yelled like this before. Especially not to someone he considered a superior.

"Maybe you need to shove your advice up your--"

“Sir!” The sound of his A.I. interrupted their conversation.

Tony, wearing a calm demeanor, flashed his Stark smile at Vision who was now entering the room. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t--don’t call me that either.”

“Sorry, Master, but--”

“Don’t--” Tony rubbed his forehead wiping away dried blood in the process. “You know what, nevermind. What is it?” 

“You have a visitor.”

“I’m not open for meetings right now. Tell them to come back another time.”

“But, I think you may want to reconsider, sir.”

Tony stared at the highly moral being and sighed in defeat. Vision had always been right, and he had suffered when he had opposed this Godlike being. “Alright. Where is this person?”

“By the entrance. I didn’t invite him in. I wasn’t sure if it’d be the right call, especially with the others in the lobby. It’d might have . . . ignited something.”

“Good. Okay.” He turned to Peter and patted him on his back. “Good talk, Parker.”

Tony made his way across the Avengers Lobby and nodded toward the two people who were still there: Hope, who was worried about Parker, and Bruce, who was fast asleep on the couch. The rest had gone off to get dinner or returned home.

As soon as she saw Peter appear at the top of the stairs, Hope left her place on the couch and headed to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. Physically he seemed fine, which was good, but his expression implied something had transpired. “You want to grab something to eat?”

“Sure,” he muttered.

“Come on. Let’s go to the cafeteria. Wanda and Rhodey headed over there.”

They left the lobby and made their way to the cafeteria where Peter would engage in the act of food consumption without really tasting it. His company noticed his quiet demeanor and tried to engage him in their conversation. Ultimately, they gave up and watched quietly as Peter threw more than half of his meal away and lazily threw his backpack onto his right shoulder. He gave them a small wave goodbye (more out of habit than of anything else) and made his way through the city alive with the busy sounds of cars and people. 

The automatic sliding doors opened for Tony Stark, and he habitually stepped out almost bumping into 

“Steve?”

Steve flashed him a small smile. “Hey, Tony. Can we talk?”


	4. Good-bye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony engage in a second conversation, but will it be their last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Another two weeks. :)

Tony's mind became flooded in a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. The very cause of his pain for the past four years (and especially the past six days) was standing right in front him. The audacity of this man. Did he not know what he had been putting him through? 

He wiped at his temple cleaning any traces of blood he may have left behind. The last thing he needed was for Steve to begin lecturing him. His lips formed a scowl, he took a step toward Steve and looked him dead in the eye. "No." Tony caught a glimpse of Steve's shocked expression before turning his back to him. He had taken one complete step and was in the midst of his second step when he felt something clutch at his right arm. He tried to shake off the tight grip, but the hand holding him back was much stronger.

"Let go of me, Cap!"

"Not until we talk."

He was not going to leave until they spoke, and Tony knew this. He could sense the determination radiating from Steve. Stubborn, that's what he was. Weighing his options, Tony concluded that his best choice was to let the Captain have this small victory. Defeated, Tony turned to face the man he so desperately longed for and wished to avoid at the same time. It was bad enough he was experiencing feelings associated with uncertainty (as a man who oozed confidence and pride, he hated feeling uncertain about anything), but to have a _man_ be the cause of these feelings somehow made his experience more unpleasant.

Seeing that Tony had conceded, Steve released his grip from Tony's arm. Tony's arm limply fell back to his side. The two of them stood there, silent, face-to-face, for a few seconds. 

"You called me."

Tony said nothing. He wasn't surprised that Steve had gotten straight to the point. He wasn't the type of man to wade about the issue.

"Tony. Why did you call for me if you were going to react this way? Why did you reach out to me only to reject me after one conversation?"

"Because I thought I could do it! I thought I could . . . forget . . . what you did. But then you--the kiss--I mean, it just . . . It reminded me of how much you hurt me. I--I can't. I just can't."

"Tony! I already said I was sorry for leaving you. How many times do I have to apologize to you?" 

"Maybe you should start by apologizing for the right thing."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't just leave me, Steve. You wronged me. You . . . you chose him." Those last words escaped from Tony's clenched teeth.

"I . . . I didn't choose him . . . he just . . . Bucky needed me."

"I needed you!"

It was Steve's turn to say nothing.

"I needed you, Steve. And you just left."

"I promised I'd come back. I promised I was going to be there for you."

"You knew what I was going through then, and you still hurt me. You lied to me about my parents. You defended _him_. You wrecked everything my father worked for when he created you!"

"I . . . I didn't--"

"You said you were being righteous and doing the right thing, but you were acting out of pure selfishness." Tony gave a quick glance down, then brought his gaze back up to Steve. "I trusted you."

The sting of those three words made Steve wince. "You're right." Steve couldn't bring himself to look at the man he had caused so much pain. "I was selfish. I shouldn't have kept your parents' death a secret. I thought if I told you it'd hurt you more, and you were hurting enough already. I was wrong."

"Yeah. You were." A slight breeze ruffled Tony's dark brown hair, which was already beginning to dry.

"But," he managed to meet Tony's gaze, "Bucky needed me. And, if I had to do it all over again, I'd still help him."

Tony shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yes, I regret some of the choices I made, and I may change some of them if I have the chance. But, I'd still choose to help my best friend."

Tony's choice to remain silent was more deafening than if he had shouted at him, and it made Steve uncomfortable. He wanted Tony to say something, to do anything. Scream. Slap him. Something!

"I was still looking out for you, Tony!" He hadn't intended to raise his voice, but the emotions inside him were swelling out. He took a deep breath and continued talking. "I told you I was still looking out for you. I watched you. Interviews. Reports. Your . . . tweets. I was still checking up on you, seeing how you were doing. I didn't want you slipping further than how I had left you."

Sensing Tony's resolute to remain silent, Steve took a gulp before he continued. His throat was dry and the little saliva that managed to travel down his throat did more harm than good to it.

"You told me we were good. You said you called me to tell me you forgive me." Steve smiled hoping to break through Tony's unwavering, cold disposition. Nothing changed. "You still forgive me, right?" His voice had become shaken.

"Look," Tony pinched the bridge of his nose as a person might to reduce a migraine, "I said I forgive you. But, I also said I don't forgive your actions." He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, Steve. I thought I missed you. I really did. But, I guess the only thing I missed was the memory of you. And bringing you back, it was a mistake. I shouldn't have called you. I don't think we can ever get to the place we were before." He put his hand on Steve's broad shoulder for a slight second before softly removing it. "Good-bye."

Steve stood cemented to the ground watching Tony as he headed back into their--his home. He continued staring even after Tony had disappeared behind the glass doors. At last, he looked up at the sunny, clear sky. "This is the part where it usually starts to pour, isn't it?" He managed a small smile at his lonely joke as he turned his back to the Avengers building . . . and to Tony.

He walked down the same street Peter had taken just a few moments ago. Replaying the conversation in his mind, Steve began mumbling to himself drawing short glances from a few passersby.

"So he forgives me . . . but he doesn't forgive me," Steve murmured. "He regrets calling me, the kiss, and--" Steve stopped in the middle of the busy street causing the person behind him, who was more focused on the glowing screen in the palm of his hand than on the road before him, to bump into him. The man looked up angrily, grumbled something Steve missed, and walked past Steve.

"The kiss." The gears in his mind began to wind. "He mentioned it reminded him of how much I hurt him. But . . ." A grin crept on his face. "But, he didn't say he regretted it. It wasn't unwarranted. Perhaps . . ." 

A slight ray of hope drove Steve back to his apartment complex. He had broken out into a slight jog and had began to perspire as he reached his destination. He quickly glanced around the small area that was deemed a living room, but, upon seeing it unoccupied, he made his way through the hall. 

"Sam!" he called out. The hall was too small to warrant an echo, so silence was the reply that came. "Sam!" He called out a few more times yet received the same reply. He had began opening three out of the four doors in the vicinity only to discover the two bedrooms and one bathroom completely empty. 

Accepting his fate, he made his way to the front door. He walked down what constituted as a front yard although it was grassless and gray and briefly searched the area. His effort was rewarded in the form of his comrade coming up the sidewalk. 

"Hey, Stev--"

Steve sprinted up to him. "Sam!" 

"You alright?" The smile on Steve's face, instead of reassuring him, was making Sam quite worried.

"Sam, I'm going to tell you everything."

"What do you mean?" Sam was beginning to question Steve's sanity. Perhaps all the time spent moping around had finally caused him to crack.

"Everything. About me. About Tony. You were right. I have to talk to somebody about it."

Upon hearing the Captain admit Sam had been right, he grinned smugly and began walking across the cemented yard. "Alright, then. Let's do that."

They walked into their small, temporary home and made their way to the small, wooden table placed in what was possibly the smallest kitchen Steve had ever seen. Sam placed the bag he had been carrying in the middle of the table and made his way to one of the few cabinets next to the stove. 

While Sam was grabbing the plates, Steve removed the take-out Chinese food Sam had brought from the plastic bag. It'd been awhile since Steve had been hungry for something other than those sugary cereals that never seemed to run out. 

They filled their plates with helpings of the sustenance stored in those three white containers. It felt nice to have something warm and meaty flow through his body rather than the cold milk and colorful sugar Steve had been living on for the past six days. 

Sam, upon seeing Steve finally eating some "real" food, relaxed and felt some of the worry that had plagued him this past week seep out of him. 

"Okay, then," he finally said after taking a few bites of his dinner. Sam waited for Steve to look up at him. When Steve's eyes finally met his, Sam kicked off the conversation. "Let's talk."


	5. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker finds himself in an unobservable predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Peter chapter! I love working with Peter Parker, and I had fun writing this chapter.

He couldn’t tell if his eyes were opened or closed. He turned his head first to the right, then to the left, then right again (one of the many habits his Aunt May had instilled in him as a child that remained with him today) as if he were about to cross a busy street. Not satisfied, he blinked a few times, but his eyes would not adjust in this confining darkness. Defeated, he leaned his head back onto the chair. Or, at least what felt like a chair. It was an uncomfortable, steel frame whose firmness only served to stiffen his already aching body. For a split second, he welcomed the intruding concern that his many crime-fighting sessions had put his body through the turmoil it was currently experiencing but quickly shook the regret away. 

The throbbing in his head transferred to his right temple. He engaged in the motion of raising his arm to nullify the pain, but . . .

“Huh?” His voice echoed in the uninhabited obscurity.

He grunted and pulled his arm away from the armchair to no avail. He tried his other arm, then both arms simultaneously. Next, he examined his legs. He swayed his legs. Kicked. Pulled. Nothing. 

As feeling returned to his body, he experienced the sensation of something tightening on his wrists and shins as he pulled away from the armrest. The edge of the seat dug into the back of his knees as though his legs were being constrained to the chair.

He was tied down.

“What the?”

He tried moving his body, hoping the chair would topple over, but it held its ground.

“Probably nailed or cemented to the floor or something. . .” He let his inner thoughts escape. With no other presence around (none that he could make out, at least), there was no need to conceal them.

He kept trying the constraints. If they were ropes, perhaps he’d be able to loosen them. But, after a while of tugging, he realized the familiarity of rope burning his flesh was missing. By now, he’d be able to feel the red lacerations the rope would have induced to his fair skin. 

“Not rope, then.” 

He stopped struggling and let his body relax. He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, so it might be wiser to clear his mind instead of struggling aimlessly against something he couldn’t even see.

His eyes had began to adjust to the enveloping darkness, but the only things he could identify were the strands of light-brown hair that had escaped to the front of his face draping over his blue eyes. He shook the stray hairs back and focused on what was in front of him. 

He let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s too dark to see anything.” 

The throbbing in his head began to subside, but now a new sensation appeared. It was sliding down his cheek, sticky and wet. 

He immediately thought of Tony Stark. Blood running down his temple. It felt like a long time ago that they’d had that . . . talk. But it was only a few . . . _minutes? hours? days?_ ago.

How long had it been? How did he get here? Where was he? At last, he found himself asking the questions that normally run through someone’s mind when they find themself in an unfamiliar environment trying to decipher their unfamiliar situation.

“Okay, okay,” he calmed himself down. “I can start screaming like a madman or I can try and figure out what the heck’s going on.” He closed his eyes, a habit people tend to have when trying to recollect a lost memory. “Okay so, what was I doing? I was, I was . . .”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Peter Parker had been walking home. Usually he enjoyed walking home, especially on an evening as bright as this. It was one of those summer evenings that looked as though the sun would last forever, but it always ended up disappearing within the hour. The brightness, cool breeze, and timing (not too early for those that find themselves in day jobs and not too late for those that have to wake up early) made for crowded streets. Being a photographer, Peter was quite observant, and with these many sights and people surrounding him, he’d be marveling at this fascinating world. Today, though, he was walking with his head down, focusing on the concrete sidewalk decorated with masticated gum, discarded scraps of paper, and dirty prints. 

He was thinking about his confrontation with his hero Tony Stark. Stark had taught him how to “be a hero.” He had taught him the ins and outs of the superhero world. He had warned him of things the “higher-ups” would use against him and of what they deemed “unnecessary.” The superhero world, as Peter came to find out, was filled with politics. Luckily, Tony Stark was a brilliant politician. 

Peter had listened intently and applied all these lessons to his hero-ing style. He was careful to minimize destruction (although that was easier said than done, especially to a highly excitable man such as himself), and he avoided anything remotely related to what they called “the media.” Newspapers, television, blogs, these were handled by Tony Stark. After the catastrophe that was Scott Lang’s interview on a certain daytime talk show, Mr. Stark had initiated that rule. Now, they all had to receive approval from Iron Man himself when briefing news reporters or even giving a comment to some unemployed, lowly blogger. 

Yes, Tony Stark was great at managing them all; however, he was not capable of managing himself. And, Peter saw that. They all saw that. 

From what he had heard the older Avengers discuss, it was Pepper Potts who had taken care of Tony. She would stabilize him whenever he began to stumble. Without her, he immediately fell.

But that wasn’t all. No. Peter, who had joined the Avengers in the midst of it, had his suspicions. It was not just Pepper who had caused this downward spiral in Tony Stark. It was also Steve Rogers’ absence.

He knew, the other Avengers knew, that if Steve would have been there, Tony would not have fallen the way he did. Sure, the billionaire was able to deceive the outside world. All he had to do was don a smile and crack some jokes. 

But, the others saw a different side of him. He had become less talkative. His carefully trimmed beard was disheveled. And his clothes were either unironed, dirty, or both. His physical appearance, which he always cared for, became none of his concern.

And, internally he was worse. He had began drinking again. He seemed fidgety at times, impatient even, and exhausted, as if he had just saved the world from another alien attack.

All of this was going through the young lad’s mind as he walked passed all these strangers who, in turn, were lost in their own world as well. Perhaps, if he’d had been his usual observant self he’d have noticed the shadow approaching him head on. Perhaps he’d have noticed the intense gaze fixated on him as the figured picked up the pace. 

But he didn’t. 

As soon as his Spidey Sense went off he felt a dull prick on the base of his neck. 

He immediately surrendered to the suffocating darkness.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The phantom sting coursed through his neck, and he reached up to slap at the invisible attacker. 

His wrist was pushed back onto the armchair by the restraint.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered to himself. Why he was whispering he did not know, but he didn’t dare speak louder. The atmosphere in this place had become eerily more distraughtful. He had broken into a cold sweat, and his throat was drier than a desert. 

He managed to find a bit of saliva hidden in the recesses of his tongue and forced it down his throat. He took another look around but to no avail. You would need some form of night-vision powers (or goggles) to even see your hand in front of your face.

_slam_

The sound was so low that Peter thought he might have imagined it. He waited. Substituting his eyes in favor of his ears, he continued listening intently but no other sounds came. He shut his eyes tightly as if the ridding of one sense would increase another. 

Nothing. He'd have to have a one-on-one meeting with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen one day. Maybe he'd be able to score a few pointers. He opened his eyes. A slight dizziness came over him, for he had unawarely been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh and quickly replaced it with a fresh batch. 

“Now, I’m hearing things. Great,” he chuckled, “I’m already going crazy.”

The slight shimmer of white light proved his statement false. But, it was gone as soon as it appeared.

Had he imagined it?

_No. It was definitely a door opening and closing . . . someone’s here_

This thought increased his heart rate. His palms were now sweatier than the time he mustered up the courage to talk to a certain classmate he thought was the most beautiful girl in existence. Sure, he had only asked her about their upcoming project, but it was still nerve wracking! 

A rhythmic thudding echoed through the warehouse. Yes, a warehouse. The light’s interruption had been minute, but he had managed to get a glance of his surroundings. 

It was empty. An empty warehouse.

“How cliché.” Even in a difficult situation such as this, he still managed to sneak in some witty banter. _I guess Stark and I aren’t that different after all._ This thought immediately brought forth the anger he felt from their last conversation. His fists clenched as he gritted his teeth. 

The thudding had grown louder. Although he could not see, he could feel the presence approaching him, and the knot in his stomach tightened. 

_thud . . . Thud . . . THUD_

Peter shut his eyes. He couldn’t see anyway, but he didn’t want to take any chances. 

_thud_

His fingers were frantically tapping on the armrest. His legs shook in rhythm. 

The thudding stopped.

Peter opened his eyes. There was something right in front of him. A gust of air hit his bloodied cheek. It was musty and warm. Like somebody’s breath.

By now, he would have welcomed any other form of verbal contact. He wanted to talk, ask questions, crack jokes. Loki could have been right in front of him with a staff aimed at his chest, and he’d make fun of his green robe.

However, the voice that came was not a welcomed one. It sent shivers through every inch of his body. It caused his skin to crawl. His dampened shirt stuck to his sweat-ridden chest, and his throat resembled a Californian drought. Yet, he managed to muster up the ounce of strength and willpower left in him, and he let his instinct take over.

Peter screamed.


End file.
